


diversionist recreation

by dendriax



Series: variable constant [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Magic, Do-Over, Fate, Free Will, M/M, Magical Realism, Overdosing, Slice of Life, Substance Abuse, Time Travel Fix-It, Unreliable Narrator, except not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:00:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22839685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dendriax/pseuds/dendriax
Summary: Kent is his past. Jack doesn't know why he keeps coming back.(Jack's POV: a companion piece. Contains major spoilers for Part 1)
Relationships: Kent "Parse" Parson/Jack Zimmermann
Series: variable constant [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1602577
Comments: 4
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Again, contains major spoilers for Part 1. (If you read this first please tell me if it makes sense on its own? Please?)
> 
> Warnings for depictions of injuries and violence. Also overdosing.

Once is an accident, twice is coincidence, more and you're simply fucked.

It's always there, in the back of his mind.

*

It feels like they're going off to war or something.

Jack knows this is not the last summer of his childhood. That ship has sailed since he started playing major junior hockey, maybe before.

He intends to make the most of it, though, has convinced Kenny to spend it with him, these thirty-four days, hanging out and fooling around together.

.

The night before the draft, Jack sleeps with Kenny, holds him close and doesn't think about how it'll probably be for the last time.

Jack never wants to talk about it.

.

For all the good the pills have done him, the dissociation is maybe the best. Sometimes it's that feeling of piloting his body from a distance. Other times it's like his psyche just functions independently. Jack can just focus and do what he does best, which is hockey. The rest of the personality doesn't matter. What other people say doesn't matter. What other people think doesn't matter.

He wishes he could go through the draft like that, half-lucid half-dazed, not fully himself.

.

Jack's confused when he wakes up and finds Papa and Maman with him, more confused when Papa says Kenny was the one who found Jack. It takes a while before his brain cooperates.

.

His phone rings. Jack picks up, says "Congrats." Kenny says "Fuck you" back, then cries, tells Jack he's coming and Jack better be alright.

.

Accidents happen. The world doesn't implode. Jack does.

-

Jack wakes up and Kenny's there in his arms. They just won the Mem Cup. They have thirty-four days.

.

They go to the beach. Kenny wants to. Jack never wants to say no.

.

Kenny's there when Jack wakes up at the hospital.

-

Kenny's still there when Jack wakes up at the hospital.

-

Jack's known there's much bullshit at the draft. Kenny's told him and he's been watching the televised version for years. What he didn't know was how much more there can be -- bullshit, that is -- with himself on site.

It changes nothing. They're at the venue. Kenny has to get drafted. Jack'll deal. He won't go overboard this time, just enough to take the edge off.

.

chit.

-

Jack tries, but. Without the pills, Jack's edgy. And Kenny sure notices because he insists on staying right by Jack's side.

.

Throwing up doesn't do much to deter the media, as Jack's regrettably come to discover.

.

Kenny's drafted first overall. Good.

-

Something else might be at work here and whatever it is, it might have something to do with Jack. Not that anyone ever notices.

-

Kenny's there again when Jack wakes up at the hospital, one hand warm in Jack's own, the other clenched into a fist.

He feels strangely fatalistic a lot of the time.

-

Jack gets drafted first and that's wrong. Kenny's supposed to go first.

-

Kenny has to go first.

-

Kenny's there. Kenny's always there, trying to make sure Jack's okay. Jack's fine. Jack's just got to get them through this the right way.

-

Having a do-over means having to do things all over again. For Jack, it means more chances to make more mistakes.

It's not that Jack's always meant for it to happen, and it doesn't help that his state of mind is what triggers it.

-

Why is Papa interested in how Jack's feeling all of a sudden?

-

Alcohol's nice. Prescription medication's nicer. Nothing consequential in the grand scheme of things.

-

"You think too much," Kenny tells him, smiling fondly and pulling away, urging him to get on stage. Pulling away and urging Jack to get on with a life where they won't get to be together. And Jack--

-

Jack doesn't let it get to the draft. It seems a thing to do.

-

Things can wait.

-

Day three of visiting Kenny's family and about twenty minutes after its construction, the blanket fort collapses.

To be fair, the living room where they sleep doesn't allow for much privacy, if at all, and they've been pretty restless after having to resort to sneaky shower sex.

"Worth it," Kenny declares, half-shrugs from his rightful place draping over Jack, cuddly and debauched.

Next time they're bringing a tent.

-

An easy gust of wind blows through Kenny's hair as he snickers at something Jack's said. And Jack just watches him, captivated and unable to do anything else, until Kenny sobers and blushes and asks what Jack's looking at, and then body-slams Jack onto the blanket when all Jack can think of to answer is "You."

They spend about a year reliving the thirty-four days before he stops keeping track, pretends it's the eternal now, no beginning, no end.

-

It's different, each time, every time, but it wouldn't get less exhilarating even if it was just a repeat of the times before. Kenny's happy, and Jack's content, gone entirely into the moments.

The future can't be better than this.

-

Still, there's hockey.

-

"It's you and me, Zimms. We'll fucking tear it up. Just lay off the pills and try not to puke, alright? I'll even hold your hand."

-

Waking up is waking up. What's happened always feels like a dream, sometimes acute and vivid, others subdued and distant.

Suffice to say, remembering things is trickier for Jack than it should be.

-

Is it always this stormy at the draft?

-

Kenny isn't there when Jack wakes up at the hospital. Good.

Only, Maman looks more discomposed than usual and Papa is nowhere in sight.

After much beseeching, Maman tells him Kenny is in the next room.

The pills.

Something has to fucking change.

*

Once, Papa had a talk with Jack, about Jack's relationship with Kenny, said he approved, warned Jack about what it could mean for their careers, told Jack he hoped it worked out.

Jack isn't jealous that Papa likes Kenny. Papa may call Kenny son but Papa doesn't treat Kenny like a son.

*

Kenny reaches out, a little unsteady, a lot grounding, doesn't let go.

Holding Kenny's hand through the draft does wonders for Jack's mentality, it turns out.

Everyone else can fuck right off.

,

The Schooners and the Falcs can stay, though.

.

Everyone knows they know how to be top players on a good team. No one knows whether they know how to be good players on different teams. Their apparent dependency during the draft has strengthened that doubt.

"No one's even mentioned WJC!" is Kenny's offstage input. Kenny's media strategy so far has been obfuscating honesty laced with zero fucks, which Jack is disposed to play along.

They go on to opposite sides of the continent.

.

Development camp goes okay. Jack doesn't believe he's impressed anyone but the coaching staff say they'll be ready by training camp. He's not sure what they mean.

.

Papa and Maman help Jack settle into Providence. Kenny transcontinentally expedites bed and TV choosing as well as makes noises about how modest he thinks the apartment is. It's only Jack, except for maybe a night per regular season. He doesn't need a lot of space. His butt doesn't need its own room.

He prints out some photos, puts them in frames, puts one of him and Kenny on his nightstand. It feels a little damning, but they're out to the world now. He can do this.

.

Jack's new teammates call him Zimmboni. Mashkov started it and everyone else has latched on somehow. Kenny laughs when Jack tells him about it.

.

Jack misses Kenny.

.

"I don't need a flu shot. Do you know how far apart Seattle and Edmonton are?"

"Yes," is Jack's well-founded answer. "Too close."

.

Two months into the season and the both of them are doing pretty well. Hockey's a team sport and they've got truly great teams in the Falcs and the Schooners.

"'Pretty well'? We're leading the league, Zimms, the whole fucking league!"

The media's saying the league isn't ready. There are reasons why good teams don't get to pick high, reasons why salary cap exists. Top prospects are NHL compatible and cheap. Projected first overalls are known to and supposed to save bad franchises. What happened at this year's draft broke the system.

Providence is a good team, has well-rounded players, solid coaching, keen fanbase, management that knows what they're doing. Jack clicked well with the roster from the get-go -- since day one of training camp, which was what the coaching staff meant by their parting words. His wingers are experienced veterans and yet let him take the lead on things. Their line's a point-producing powerhouse that works fluidly with the rest of their teammates. Jack's leading the league in assists by quite a margin and second in points. No one's talking to him about the Calder. It's far too early for it to mean anything but it doesn't stop the media from blowing it up. If things continue like this the Art Ross will go to either him or Kenny with Kenny taking the Rocket, is what everyone's headlining.

"With the way you've taken residence with the D they fucking better be handing you the Norris on top of the Selke."

A potential Cup contender, Seattle is already strong defensively. In fact, the Schooners have been particularly farcical in relying on their top-class defense and physical style of play to the point where they have scored lower than two goals per game average and still made the playoffs. Armed with Kenny's firepower the team's now steamrolling the way for the most dominant regular season in NHL history. Jack's main strategy's been covering extensive portions of the ice and physically asserting his presence, whether setting up his team's own or tearing down the opponents' attacks. And while Jack's everywhere, Kenny's nowhere. Celer et mortalis, Kenny does what he wants with devastating effectiveness and vanishes into open ice, leaving even high-end players looking like amateurs.

Jack's a force to be reckoned with, Kenny's a sight to behold.

.

Significant portions of certain non-hockey demographics are going to agree upon and exalt Kenny's sight-to-behold status very soon, if the samples from Kenny's latest photoshoot are anything to go by.

"It's just for a magazine article, Zimms. Do people even read those anymore?"

The pictures are tasteful, that much can be said. Hopefully, the general public will focus on the hockey-related aspects and not how wildly pornographic the internet will certainly make it out to be. The Schooners PR likely knows what they're doing, and Jack reminds himself that Kenny is his own person who is of legal age, barely, and can make his own decisions.

.

Jack didn't see the hit coming.

He knew someone was there but it didn't occur to him that that someone would attempt something with such conspicuous and willful disregard of the rules.

And he can try to double back and not get a concussion, but -- and this is a big but -- now he has an excuse. Not to go to Seattle, per se, but where else would he be?

.

Kenny, as might be expected, is ridiculous. The apartment is soundproofed to kingdom come and adorned with curtains and shades and blinds and dimmer switches. Everything that can be remotely-controlled now has that option, which means roughly a quarter of the coffee table is colonized by a battalion of remotes and Jack is now afraid to clap his hands lest he risks causing a citywide blackout.

Another case in point:

"Look, I'll blow you and slip you some fingers and ride you very carefully and that's gonna have to be enough, okay?"

.

It takes lots of cajoling and some grizzling, but Kenny relents eventually, lets Jack slip from his mouth, slides up Jack's body with a trail of soft kisses and gently eases out his lubed fingers. Tendrils of anticipation spread through Jack's body as Kenny lines himself up, steady as Jack breathes, and then Kenny's in, in, in, hot and bare, so close Jack can't really tell them apart.

After, Jack falls asleep to Kenny nuzzling at the hinge of his jaw, murmuring, "Miss you."

.

And Jack's honestly fine. Aside from those unearthly automatons in the bathrooms, nothing's physically bothering him, not bright lights, not loud noises. His head isn't even pounding anymore.

.

They have a routine and it's nice. But even with Kenny trying his damnedest to hole up with Jack, the amount of free time starts to feel oppressive after a while. The doctors maintain that Jack shouldn't rush things since concussions can feel better one day and unfavorably worse the next. Papa suggests taking it easy. Maman suggests finding a hobby. Jack looks around the exercise in reasonableness of an apartment, at the formidable entertainment center, the thoughtfully stacked bookshelves, towards the spacious dining room and the imposing kitchen, and decidedly channels his vim and vigor into improving his rather wanting culinary skills, of all things.

.

Kenny gets hurt on a roadie -- off the ice, bar fight -- and insists he's fine.

At least Vancouver's close.

He's sleeping when Jack gets to the hospital. His teammates say he passed all the tests but is kept under observation because some dipshit hit him in the head with a beer bottle.

Jack knows they're both being targeted but this is getting idiotic.

He'll do what Kenny wants.

-

Jack doesn't get concussed, as per Kenny's wish.

Kenny, for his part, doesn't go out on away games. Jack feels a little sleazy soliciting Kenny with phone sex but it's for the greater good.

.

There are seasonal vegetables roasting in the oven and Jack's adding an adventurous flavor profile to the chicken breasts he's grilling.

On the laptop, Kenny's grinning, holding four pucks in front of the camera. Jack's happy for him.

.

A slapshot catches Jack in the mouth.

-

Jack's jaw doesn't get broken, no reconstructive dental surgery required.

.

"We got drafted low. It's our rookie year. Our respective countries have reserves," Jack reasons. "We are not going to be in the Olympics."

Over the phone, Kenny snorts. "Not with that attitude."

.

A stick gets into Jack's skate. Whoever's holding it doesn't let go, wrenches the thing.

-

Jack's leg doesn't get busted. Jack considers starting a petition to remove holes from skates.

.

There's something different about Jack's stall.

More specifically, there's Kenny all over Jack's stall.

"Zimmboni! You like?" It's Tater, coming to grab Jack by the shoulder as the locker room dissolves into laughter -- a testament of how people still read magazines, in Jack's opinion.

,

PARSON: Oh, you know, [laughs] I wear 90 because [Zimmermann] is the 1 for me.

Jack rereads the benign quote of meaningful unbearable weight one more time -- possibly with a dopey facial expression -- before letting his eyes dart back to the tastefully provocative photos it accompanies.

"I mean, you're weird about dick pics vs cybersecurity shit and now you have lawful old-school jerk off material? Well, you and everyone who got the mag... or internet access... or reporters lurking to-- Fuck, call your parents!"

.

He has the night off.

On the TV, Kenny's deking his way past three guys towards the net, toe dragging around a poke check that's not pretending to be on the legal side of tripping. The crowd's roaring. The puck goes top-shelf glove-side highlight-reel despite a slash to the thigh. But Kenny can't skate away, is caught by the goalie and a defenseman. The goal horn blares. The other guys don't slow down, crash into them. Kenny disappears into the bottom of the pile-up. The refs and the linesmen rush in to pull everyone apart. Jack holds his breath.

Kenny comes out bloody.

There's so much red on the ice. All over. A couple of stitches aren't gonna fix this. Someone's skate must've found its way to Kenny's neck. And Kenny is still trying to get up on his own. Jack can't--

-

Kenny's carotid doesn't get slit, nor do his throat, jugular, and face.

Jack takes a page from one of his uncle's books (p. 92), snaps a picture of one particular passage (about deking around ninety-three guys), and sends it to Kenny.

If that doesn't work he'll ask his uncle to personally give Kenny a call and put the fear of Hockey Gods into him.

.

Sometimes people walk up to Jack and say how brave they think he and Kenny are, how inspiring. Some of them are hockey fans. Some couldn't care less about sports. School girls squee at him. Vintage hipsters tell him to "Stay fire, my dude." A war veteran calls him son.

It's not all bad, being out.

.

QUESTION: "The upcoming game will mark the first time in all of history that a couple of hockey players -- an honest-to-god romantic couple of gay rookies -- ever play on the same sacred NHL largely-casually-homophobic ice, would you elaborate on what kind of queer shenanigans should we be preparing ourselves for in this strange new world?"

ZIMMERMANN: *blinks* "Just, you know. Expect great hockey played by great teams. Kenny is it for me, on and off the ice, but it's hockey first once the puck drops. The Schooners have been having an exceptional season so far. We the Falconers are not doing too shabby ourselves."

(PARSON, in reference to the above quote: *blushes* "Yeah, not too shabby, the word choice for the best team in the Eastern Conference. Also my mind's not filling with indecent things me and Zimms could do together at all.")

.

The day's here. Not that anyone would let Jack forget but the day's finally here. Kenny's coming to him. Which, supply run!

.

"Skate into the hug, you know you want to."

Jack does, then there's the inevitable "You can do better," and they end up kissing on international television, 'Fuck off' mentality still going strong.

.

It's Jack who has to go against Kenny.

The Falconers will never admit it, but they have been gearing up for this, have held extra practices and video review sessions and off-ice strategy meetings for this.

No pressure.

.

Jack really, really loves hockey.

.

Losing to Kenny's team sucks, but everyone else is doing it and at least Jack's team's managed to force the game to overtime.

Kenny's teammates are a good group of guys who treat Jack like one of their own. Which is to say they chirp the hell out of him, too, in an amicable way. And somehow he finds himself and Kenny surrounded by both their teams in the post-game mandatory outing, which is nice.

Jack can't help but wonder if the Schooners would be this good if Providence had picked Kenny up first and Jack was the one who went to Seattle. Would the Schooners even have drafted Jack?

"Are you calling my team dumb? You have more points than me right now."

-

Jack didn't actually plan this. But.

When you are a teenager who can do what it is Jack can do and fate is doing its mercilessly cruelest to keep you and your Kenny apart, you make the best out of the situation.

-

They have sex.

-

Lots of sex. Magical, brilliant, marvelous, comprehensive, restorative, competitive, carnal, rigorous, magnanimous, spirited, energetic, athletic, overwhelming, inspiring, innovative, esoteric, organic, tangible, assuring, gentle, extended, existential, zealous, giddy, mellow, sentimental, liberal, relentless, frantic, decisive, cuddly, gratifying, mind-blowing, life-affirming, lots and lots of sex.

-

Looking into Kenny's eyes as they grind against each other, Jack thinks they could just spend forever here, just like this, and be happy. Just the two of them in this timeless space. Or Jack's modest apartment. Modest, because after having spent a childhood growing up in a mansion, Jack doesn't want roomy. Jack wants cozy, lived-in. But it can be anywhere. With Kenny, it's perfect.

Maybe it could last.

-

Does this mean Jack's a sex addict?

-

Kenny cracks up when he finally notices the dog-eared magazine on the nightstand, then looks at Jack all too seriously when he sees the framed photograph. Photographs, of the two of them.

-

There's this one time -- eight combined orgasms and still going -- that Kenny proposes.

Jack says yes, of course, and they smile so much they can't kiss properly. It's the first time Kenny ever asks, ever. Jack doesn't know what's prompted Kenny to do it or exactly what kind of afterglow stupor they're in and, frankly, there's no way Jack would say no.

As with most intense mental states, elated bliss can rip apart the flow of time, and as with everything, Jack has to be better. Someday he will do something right. Kenny will do it again.

-

He remembers his plan to cook at some indefinite point. But alas, his gastronomic ambition is thwarted by Kenny, who's decided to practice naturism as well as symbiosis-level clinginess. Not that Jack minds.

Next time sounds nice.

-

So do simultaneous mutual blowjobs.

-

It's still different every time, liminal and on the verge of surreal. Kenny feels like everything, all-consuming. And Jack can't get enough. His mind, his body, maybe even his soul, fucking done for.

-

Then again, hockey.

-

And Jack'd be okay with missing hockey, but Kenny brought it up, longingly. And.

"You're not incognito just because you're wearing my hoodie," Jack observes on their scenic drive to the airport. Jack's not in a hurry. Scheduled air traffic's got nothing on him.

Across the gearshift, Kenny stops fiddling with Jack's meticulously programmed car radio and turns to quirk an eyebrow, saying, "Which is why I also got my shades and your snapback on," complete with a 'See?' gesture.

The mirrored sunglasses are loaded with bling and what one might call attention-grabbing. The baseball cap is patently worse, Falcs logo and all. Jack resigns himself to people assembling around them the moment they set foot into the terminal.

,

If only that were all that happens.

*

It's hard not to develop a complex when the universe seems to revolve around you.

*

Jack doesn't want a repeat of last time. The shithead who had thrown the first punch at Kenny and to whom Jack had yelled "Mon tabarnak j'vais te décâlisser la yeule, câlice!" before doing exactly that probably doesn't, either. And, certainly, neither does the shitbag whose skull Kenny had planted into the flooring.

Jack doesn't like to admit it but there was something very therapeutic about that. Maybe they both needed it. Kenny's livid grin looked downright bloodcurdling with a split lip and a cut on his cheek. Just because they don't fight on the ice doesn't mean they don't know how to fuck people up. Except.

They were outnumbered. By a lot. And not just back at the airport. Everywhere.

Concordia salus. The world's not ready. Jack can't let it happen again.

-

Someone's name's called and suddenly Kenny's there, all up in Jack's space, hollering, "What're you doing here? Go do the thing! I'll be right with you in a heartbeat!"

So maybe it's Jack who's being called.

And it was definitely Jack who got to Kenny first.

.

Kenny's supposed to go first.

-

Realizations don't come easy. Trials and tribulations take time. And as circumstances would have it, time is on Jack's side.

He has to try. For Kenny. For them both.

-

Jack gets jealous of Kenny sometimes, or a lot of times, if he's being honest. It's ugly, and it feels wrong, but he can't help it. Jack's supposed to be the best, #1. The coaches say so, their teammates say so, the NHL rookies he beat in an informal shootout when he was twelve have said so, the media says so. Papa doesn't say it out loud, but Jack knows Papa thinks so, too, along with everyone else. The expression on Papa's face while Jack waits to go second says it all.

"What am I supposed to do now that I'm fucking doomed to play for the idiots who picked me over you?"

Kenny's not supposed to anything, is what Jack gets jealous of, and also only now realizes the irony of, considering how many times Jack's tried to foist going first on Kenny. Draft positions don't matter in the long run. Or short-term, even. They were nowhere near first or second that time they'd inadvertently come out and things were almost ideal then.

-

Things are better with Kenny, always.

-

Finding the right apartment and getting the right furnishings take time and efforts. And money. And no, Jack's butt still doesn't need its own room.

.

Las Vegas is not Providence. They keep losing, badly. It's not that they're bad. They're fundamentally not bad. They're trying, and sometimes they manage to pull off a win. But most of the time things just don't come together for them.

"Abso-fucking-lutely no one can singlehandedly save an entire goddamn franchise, I'm fucking sure there's fucking quotes about this."

He has to do better. He's consistently producing but it's not good enough. His team is losing. His plus/minus needs work. Jack needs to make better plays, devise better strategies, force more turnovers, block more shots, dedicate more of himself. Everyone expects better, knows Jack can do better. And they're right. Jack knows he can do better. Kenny's been doing better, scoring hat tricks and game winners when all Jack can do is extend his point streak.

"I'm just capitalizing on other people's mistakes, unlike you who's doing everything!"

Jack knows he can't just give it 110% at all times and hope for the best. That'd be simultaneously unsustainable and insufficient. At the same time, he can't not get on the ice and give it his absolute all every time. It's what he was built to do. Hockey is what they want to do, Jack and Kenny both, and they want to play amongst the best. They've made it to the show, now they just need to give it their best to go against the best.

It wouldn't be fun, otherwise.

.

"You need to loosen up," his fellow rookie, Troy, says, looking at Jack's clenched fists, then at whatever expression's on Jack's face. "Seriously."

.

Jack is used to the cold, prefers it. The dry desert heat is suffocating and ice baths can only do so much. He needs a breather, his throat and lungs feel raw, his hands start shaking whenever he's too sober, and he's gone too long without the pills already. He needs to not feel things, go back to giving zero fucks. Fuck America and its bullshit drinking age. Jack has a fake, but he also has a face that's regularly shown on TV and plastered on billboards. His accent and obvious Canadianism don't help, either, too recognizable. He's a novelty in a major city that surprisingly cares, an identity to something previously immaterial, a name laden with legacy, a history in the making. There's, on top of the established press and promotional stuff, an offer to create a life-size sculpture of his likeness from chocolate. His teammates chirp him a lot about that, and about everything else, but they also provide him with a steady stream of alcohol without being asked, so that's nice. What was Jack saying? Oh, right.

He should be more grateful.

.

"Is your superfluously large ass still not doing anything at all to prepare for your imminent hyped-to-heavens game against the up-and-coming Parson?" one reporter starts.

"It'll be your first encounter on the ice since your legendary Mem Cup win, would you care to also make it your last? Y'know, unleash your harrowing abyss of infernal discontent and end his career in smears against the boards?" comes another reporter.

Jack doesn't know what the appropriate course of action is. Would it help if he checked more people? Moved to defense? Grew a beard? Or maybe punched these reporters and those pundits and kept punching and hoped his then fucked-up hands and reputation would be enough an excuse to quit every-fucking-thing?

The last option is exceedingly tempting. But no. Can't have that. Kenny's coming. The show goes on.

.

They knock their helmets together during warm-ups, linger for a little too long. Kenny's there, smiling at Jack, blinding and wild, still a sight to behold, still as much of a nightmare to go against as Jack remembers.

It's the most alive Jack's felt all season.

.

QUESTION: "Considering it's been months and Vegas still technically hasn't emerged from the bottom five of the conference, which is no surprise granted how lackluster you've proven to be, who do you reckon is the most disappointed in you? The Aces organization who'd made a huge mistake at the draft? The bane of your sorry existence and so-called best friend Kenny? Or your forbearing father Hockey Legend Bad Bob Zimmermann?"

"It's been a day past two months. 15-14-0 just moments ago, the Aces now have more wins than losses. Currently tied three-way for eleventh place in the Western Conference, sure, but that amount of points beats more than half of Eastern teams. Just one more and they'll be tied for eighth. Two more points and it'll be seventh. The city of Las Vegas just erected a super sweet statue to commemorate their unprecedented charitable season for fudge's sake. Not to mention Zimms has an eff-ton more assists than any rookies and is on a thirteen-game forking point streak. What the ever-loving [bleep] are you $#!+heads harping about?" is Kenny's response from all the way in the visitor locker room.

.

"I don't need you to take the heat off me, you know," Jack verbalizes as he forces their way through traffic. Kenny has a game against the Thrashers tomorrow and is flying the morning of. There's not enough time.

"They just keep stirring up shit and blaming you for fucking everything." Kenny's still emoting as the elevator doors slide open and Jack leads them to his apartment. "It's fucking bullshit. Your team totally sucked at the start of the season. You were the one who brought everyone together. The Aces are rebuilding around you and it's clearly working. Anyone can see that. And yet--"

.

Jack loses it.

,

And in the worst fucking way, too. Pun not intended.

,

Hockey is fun and brutal. The show is grand and grating. Papa is encouraging and expectant. Maman is supportive and cool. Kenny is... staring unseeingly at the ceiling.

There are tear tracks. They're living the dream and they're both miserable because of Jack. Things are fucked up.

He looks at Kenny, reaches to tame his cowlick and smooth the faint furrow of his brow, thinks about how Kenny used to be back when they first met, how carefree and unburdened-by-Jack, how Kenny doesn't deserve this, the whirlwind of disasters that Jack brings, the ticking time bomb that Jack is. Jack doesn't regret it, being with Kenny, dragging Kenny into his world of trouble, and that's not even the worst part, that he'd do it again. Some things are inevitable and he knows that, has come to know that. Jack has tried and every fallout has hurt. It's not new and at this point it's inexcusable, that he keeps finding new ways to screw up. The worst part is, despite everything, sometimes he wants it to hurt, gets morbid satisfaction from it, from seeing everything he's worked hard all his life for turn to shit, seeing the unsubdued disappointment on Papa's face, the way Maman's composure give way, from knowing he can make Kenny fall apart.

Maybe all that he's been doing has only been one fantastic detour. Maybe everyone would be happy if three-year-old Jack had told Papa that he wasn't particularly fond of hockey and would love to try curling, or if he'd foregone the Q and done normal high school stuff. He could've done that, could do that. After all, regressing is Jack's specialty. But no hockey would mean no Kenny. Everything they've done together, gone. And that's the line he can't cross. Won't cross. Jack knows, in some prominent parts of his mind, that he's never going to feel the way he feels about Kenny about anyone else ever again in his life. Maybe being happy is not something he's allowed, but Kenny deserves everything. And--

"I love you."

It's going to hurt, whichever way he chooses.

-

One last time.

.

He keeps it simple, hanging out and fooling around, some conditioning, some ice time, some lakes, the beach, the Combine, a road trip, contentment and elation, whatever they feel like doing.

The Mem Cup will always be there. Everything they've accomplished in juniors will always be there. The draft will go the way it was meant to. There's no good reason he should've come back this far, but here he finds himself anyway.

.

"The seasons will be long and the distance will suck, but. It's us, Zimms. Fuck, I'm gonna miss you."

.

They're curled up in some hotel bed somewhere not far from some airport, dark with only artificial lights filtering in from outside.

Jack doesn't fall asleep. There'll be plenty of time, later. Right now he wants to remember this, the blissful look on Kenny's face, the way their bodies fit together, the fullness in his chest, the warmth in his heart. He'll hold on to it, along with the others, for as long as he can. All moments may be fleeting, but the memories--

The memories, he'll get to keep.

,

The bottle is right where he's kept it.

He gets dressed quietly. The bathroom tiles are cold. This time won't be an accidental lapse of judgment. This time it's deliberate. He takes a deep breath. He's just sitting. He'll use what he needs and get rid of the rest. Nothing will go wrong.

His hands are oddly not shaking.

.

"Dad?" Jack begins after rechecking the draft results, a storm raging all over. "I need help."

.

His phone rings.

.

Jack puzzles out a fail-safe means to regularly back up his voicemails in a virtually eternal manner.

Kenny's got bigger things going on, better things ahead. He'll get over Jack.

.

Rehab goes by in a blur. His psychotherapeutic approach has been alcohol infused with medication, so a blur is what it feels like when his mind is incoherently clear.

There's nothing rational about substance abuse, Jack knows that now.

He doesn't go back to the draft. He's not ready, maybe not ever.

.

He's alone for the night.

WWII documentaries are his to re-watch. Papa and Maman are in Vegas. They were reluctant to go but the Commissioner did ask and Jack urged them to.

Jack's phone stays silent.

.

One day after coming home from coaching the kids, it occurs to him that he hadn't looked for Kenny on the ice at all.

He sits down, buries his face in his hands, laughing to himself. It only takes two years.

His hands are wet.

.

Without the constant pressure of having to be better every time, life's weird. Speaking of, he should get his life into some semblance of order. Maybe go to school. More distractions would do him good. Somewhere he can play.

It's not gonna be the same, but.

It will never be the same.

.

College is rather decadent when it comes to parties and intoxicants, and that's counting Jack's time in juniors, which is saying something, although Jack's already forgotten what it was.

In a trippy moment of lucidity, it occurs to him what a megalomaniac he's been.

It's strange to think about, how lives are intertwined. He knows there's a whole world outside his own, whole stories and experiences behind every person. And yet he's never cared. All he's ever thought about is hockey and Kent and himself when in all fairness he could've done so much with what he can do. But no, that's not right, either. Hockey magic is for hockey. Mess with anything else and everything will go FUBAR. Look at that guy in juniors. Jack just being here might've upset the intricate underpinnings of the universe already.

"This is exactly where you're supposed to be, bro," says Johnson out of nowhere. Jack considers him. Johnson is the weirdest goalie Jack's ever met, and that's also saying something. But the philosophical and existential suicide of contemplating Johnson's metaphysical nature gives Jack headaches. So. Penitus potes. More of whatever he's been drinking it is.

.

Sometimes people bring up illegal drugs. He doesn't know if they're looking to buy or sell and he doesn't ask.

.

His new best friend is Shitty, who is the opposite of shitty. What a Shitty thing to say. There are Bylaws, and tub juice is what the whatever is called.

.

Winter Screw is defiantly a matter of course, so is the Swallow 50 Most Beautiful issue, both of which bring forth unfounded attention and everyone readily badgers him about his patent nonexistent dating life every chance they get.

He doesn't know what to tell any of them. Up to now Kent is the sum total of his experience, and-- And. Maybe he should fix that.

Maybe.

.

The captaincy is his. 'Swawesome.

.

He watches.

He can't not. And he's glad he does.

Three years, and everyone said it couldn't be done.

His phone stays silent.

.

He stands at the door of his new bedroom. An empty frame stares back from its place on his nightstand.

.

The new defensemen are potentially the best D-pair in the ECAC and also very loud. Mandy and Jenny are spiritually chill. There's this girl that artfully decimates the guys at drinking games. Shitty stays his Shitty-self. Jack isn't one to flip shit and Jack's sheep empire sure isn't cruel.

.

The Stanley Cup is in the Haus.

,

Kent gets closer, is saying something, and Jack can't tell who moves, let alone make out the words. Head swimming and vision tunneling. Three fucking years and he has to focus on staying upright. All the plans, the hypotheticals. The dream. And here the two of them are.

Jack can't.

,

One more apology he owes.

.

Campus gossip's got nothing on sports commentary. Although during a fanatical outcry Ransom and Holster mentioned something about a trove of fan fiction. Jack's never stepping a foot in the attic.

.

There's Kate, and a respectful while later there's Samantha.

There's also hockey and school. And cartography in the summer, possibly.

.

Figure skating is useful. Pies are dangerous. Checking is necessary. Brace your heart.

.

Then there's Camilla. Who's nice, and a fantastic athlete, and stunningly beautiful.

And it would be simple, he thinks. Uncomplicated.

Every reason why it shouldn't happen.

,

Shouldn't have.

.

They win, securing a playoff berth, the ECAC Championship, and lose in the first round of the Frozen Four. It's not what they wanted but it is what it is.

.

Time passes and things change. The league's changed. Or Jack has. Either way, he thinks he's ready to try again. Not the draft, but the NHL. Free agency seems promising.

Chicago, Boston, Montreal, none of them feels right.

.

Chowder, Nursey, Dex.

C, N, D.

CANADA.

.

Camilla is really nice. Dancing can be enjoyable. A good time overall.

Jack has no deets. Shitty needs to get out of Jack's bed.

.

Breathe, he reminds himself, lets his eyes fall shut, doesn't say "I miss you, too," breathes in, savors the feeling of being this close to the one person he wishes more than anything he could spend the rest of forever with, holds back, doesn't linger, says no.

He can be the bad guy. He already is.

,

Kent would call him fucking dramatic if he could read minds.

,

The second time is decidedly more alien. Which is saying a lot since the last time there was also the Cup, but. Seeing Kent with Jack's friends, talking to Holster and Ransom, being swarmed by the frogs, getting pwned at flip cup by Lardo, trying to make sense of Shitty, even taking photos with Bittle. Alien visuals in spades.

.

He dreams incoherent dreams, as though his brain is a food processor.

Or a garbage disposal, that would explain things.

.

Chowder raises a valid question, and like tumbleweeds tumbling aimlessly through the Mojave, everyone starts talking discursively about how great it would be. It all feels oddly chocolatey.

.

A road sweep, another chance at the playoffs, another ECAC title, then comes the Regionals.

Meanwhile, the Aces clinch a playoff spot. It never was a win-win, and he doesn't mention it to Dex.

.

It's weird to be in TD Garden where Jack once frequented playing the Bruins, before, and now in a different capacity. It's still weird to find himself looking for someone who he's made sure wouldn't be coming back.

Another Frozen Four loss. Ha.

.

Cultural politics are always tricky to navigate, but it's one thing to create a culture and another to organize a cult. Which, somehow USA Hockey has managed to do both. Just listen to Holster telling tales about broing out with Kent by way of trying out for the USNTDP and phantom imagery comes pouring. A part of Kent Jack never gets to see, among various others, and counting.

.

There's a contract waiting to be signed.

The Falcs were good for him once. There's been a considerable number of trades over the years, but still. Providence is a good team. It's a no-brainer.

Almost.

.

Force of habit, Jack thinks when he realizes where he and Maman have ended up. It's been six years. He doesn't even know he's been leading them here until they're already in front of the building.

His old apartment has been taken. He doesn't have any good reason to feel disappointed.

.

Graduation comes. Lots and lots of people are proud. All in all a good distraction.

There's a Haus party where he says his goodbyes, doesn't get schwasted, and somehow finds himself chilling in a pile of out-of-season leaves beside Nursey. It's strange how things turn out sometimes.

.

Tater calls him Zimmboni, everyone else latches on. Some things just don't change.

Jack knows how Kent would laugh.

*

With time, you never win. Only.

Je me souviens.

*

There are new voicemails from last night. They're all empty... except--

Tabarnak.

.

It takes a while for the call to connect and then there's "The fuuuuuccck--" that Jack cuts off with "This is Jack Zimmermann and you need to go check on your captain right fucking now!"

It takes another while before Troy calls back with the sit-rep.

-

It feels different, somehow, but Jack's still got it and that's all that matters for the moment.

He uses the time while he waits for the ungodly hours to pass to come up with appropriate things to say other than "What the fuck will you have been thinking?" And book a flight and pack, just in case. All these years and Jack still managed to find a new way to fuck up. Typical.

He checks the time, and hits call. And when it doesn't connect, hits call again. And again and again.

He still doesn't know what to say. But in the end, it's easy.

He says yes.

.

"Glad you came. Into the box you go."

The game is different, and not only because Jack's watching from inside the arena. Or maybe it is. There's no doubt the Aces will win it all again but Kent's demolishing on another level than yesternight and it's hard to believe it's because Jack's here.

They kiss under the Stanley Cup, Kent's fourth. It's surreal. Electric and burning. Consuming. And it feels like home. All these people, the flashes going off, broadcasting live, Jack doesn't give a single fuck. Kenny's here in his arms. Why would Jack care about anyone or anything else.

"I miss you. I wish you'd always been here."

-

Kenny's the one saying yes this time and Jack comes running. Flying, but he collaterally got uninjured. So.

It's even more different, how Kenny wins his third Cup. The entire game, in fact. And Jack would know, he watched it live and has re-watched it many times over the years.

Kenny's smile when Jack goes to join him on the ice is the same.

-

Jack doesn't call. They're both in Providence. They'll meet soon enough.

It's Jack's first Stanley Cup and Kenny's welcome to take it from him. That is, if he can.

.

Getting on the ice is nerve-wracking, as Jack's body remembers. Kenny's grin after Jack chances a smile at him packs a blow and this time Jack doesn't shy away from eye contact during face-offs. The game is, again, different, but still intense and so fucking fun. Jack always wants to play with the best and, well, Kenny is the best. On and off the ice, no question. The Falcs are up by two but then Kenny scores twice -- fucking twice to complete a fucking hat trick -- in the third and they drag it to double overtime before Jack manages to steal the puck from Kenny and nets the game-winner.

In the handshake line, Jack asks. Kenny says "Fuck you" back, then hugs him, tells Jack "Of course, Zimms," despite Jack still owing him so many apologies and having a lot to make up for. And Jack lets himself cry, and holds on for dear life. Fuck everything else, Jack never wants to let go, will never let go. Never again.

.

Papa and Maman are here. Five of his friends from Samwell are here. And it's unconventional for the captain of the losing team to celebrate with the alternate captain of the winning team, but then it's also unconventional for them to be kissing anywhere near the Cup. Besides, there's zero fucks left to give whatsoever.

.

Jack takes Kenny back, as close to back as Jack could untimely manage. The old apartment is one floor up and two units to the left, but he's furnished and kept this one the same way. They were happy here, multiple consecutive times, and for a long time it's helped to be reminded of that.

Drinks are offered and denied. Kenny looks around for several heartbeats, nonplussed, and Jack braces himself for "Where's your butt gonna sleep?" But Kenny doesn't comment, goes to flop on the couch, and shuts his eyes.

Things aren't gonna be fixed just because Jack's asked Kenny to stay. Jack needs to do better. Moving to sit in front of Kenny, he gets ready to--

"You just won the Cup against my team. Now you want my dick?"

The coffee table creaks as Jack recoils. But Kenny is just kidding, laughs, warm, visceral. And they talk for a bit, a familiar comfortable thread of conversation, so not really. Then sex. Gracious and non-egregious amount of sex, because they should talk. Jack has confessions to make and lots to apologize for. Instead they fall asleep.

-

Jack wakes up before the game, tries to trounce himself but can't. He has another chance. He can be better.

.

Snapping back time is straightforward. Backward? If done deliberately and perfectly, you see the past stretch out before you, pinpoint the exact moment you want, then will it into the present, and universally everything -- every atom and particle, every quantum of energy, every living and non-living being, every thought, feeling, and experience, every force that sets nature in motion, every causal agent and entity that sustains and mobilizes the macrocosm, et cetera -- gets reset and starts right where they left off the same way they did the time before. Unless Jack does things differently. Which he always does. Even people with eidetic memory don't stand a chance against autokinesis.

Which means it's not as useful as it could be, since every small change you make in this tortuous plane of existence can have colossal and long-lasting effects. It's weird. Jack doesn't remember it being like this before the draft, all incompatible sets of memories aside. The present is the result of the past and the cause of the future, sure, but every random thing changes. Say hi to people at the Combine and their scores change. Answer one question wrong and the Aces choose you over Kenny. Pick up the phone and there's a car accident.

It's good that it's magical so the same kids get born, otherwise countless souls would've been unintentionally doomed to indeterminate oblivion.

Another inconvenient aspect is no one ever remembers. Jack has asked. The first time he and Kenny fooled around he panicked and time snapped backward. And Kenny didn't remember when Jack mentioned it and then sex ensued again. Repeated for an uncounted number of times. It was Kenny who assured Jack every time that there was no need to feel alone, that he would be there and happy to do everything with Jack all over again, that it wouldn't be Jack taking advantage of him even though he couldn't remember, that it'd be worthwhile and fucking great if they'd just spend forever like that, just the two of them together, just hanging out and fooling around in some modest billet bedroom, maybe throw in hockey every once in a while.

That was lifetimes ago.

Now Kenny just buries the puck to tie the series. They'll play Game 7 and Jack'll ask if Kenny would take him home. And he'll explain, everything, recount all that's happened because Kenny deserves to know, to have all the information laid out before he decides if he'd let Jack stay, hopefully forever. Stanley Cup Finals hockey against each other followed by a summer spent together would be swell.

.

Losing always sucks but this time it's a win-win. Jack's happy for Kenny and so fucking proud. Papa, Maman, even Tater who's still holding a bit of grudge go in to congratulate him. And while that's happening inches away, Troy -- Swoops -- swoops in to clamp a firm hand on Jack's shoulder and give Jack a shovel talk. There've been reasons Jack remembered and saved his phone number all those years ago.

There's a party -- gratuitously extravagant, Vegas style -- that Kenny begs off and then bolts when someone mentions fluffy handcuffs. The streets are familiar. The cityscape, the architecture, the lights, all remind Jack of the few months he'd lived here. And.

The apartment building. This parking garage. Elevators that stop on this particular floor. This cold calculated calm of dread.

There's definitely something else at work here. This is his apartment. Jack's. Kenny's. Somehow they'd managed to choose the exact same place. Jack knows Kenny. There's been an immense gap in-between but there's no way--

The door gets unlocked and Kenny ushers Jack in. And it's the same, the layout, the furnishings, down to the TV that's been out of stock worldwide since 2013. This apartment was empty when Jack found it and he had to ask Maman where he could get that coffee table, a local artisan shop in Vermont. How--

Of course.

Hockey magic evolves with each hockey player's hockey-tude.

Fucking chit de tabarnak.

.

~

.

Jack blinks awake to Kenny sitting up in bed, staring at him, a little alarmed and perplexed looking, vulnerable in the dim light.

"Can you tell me what happened yesterday?"

The question is hesitant and careful, and that's not right. Something is not right. Jack moves to draw Kenny into his arms and holds him tight, tries his best to project calm and reassurance. Whatever it is, they are together. They're gonna get through it together.

"Seriously, Zimms, tell me what happened yesterday so I know if I should be freaking out or annoyed or whatever."

Confused, Jack says, "You won the Cup?" Which prompts Kenny to pull away slightly and look him up and down, and smile, and start laughing, and when that subsides, clap his hands twice and smirk.

There's a soft mechanical whir as the room gets gradually brighter, floor-to-ceiling windows appear from behind the blackout curtains, revealing a vaguely familiar skyline.

Jack blinks. This is new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes from real life:  
> \- In all of 2009-10 season, the Canucks played the Bruins only once and it was in Boston so naturally the Schooners would've also played the Falcs only once and in Providence?  
> \- "People think that to be a good player you have to pick the puck up, deke around ninety-three guys and take this ungodly slap shot. No. Let the puck do all the moving and you get yourself in the right place." -- Gretzky in his autobiography.  
> \- "Celer et mortalis" means "swift and deadly", from "Celer, Silens, Mortalis"  
> (Swift, Silent, Deadly) the motto of the USMC Force Recon, formerly the Amphibious Recon in the Pacific Theater, which I think Jack'd know from the WWII documentaries.  
> \- "Mon tabarnak j'vais te décâlisser la yeule, câlice!" means "I'm gonna beat your fucking face in, you fucker!", taken from the wiki.  
> \- "Concordia salus" (Well-being through harmony) is the motto of Montreal.  
> \- The former Atlanta Thrashers relocated to the current Winnipeg Jets in '11, which prompted the realignment from 6 to 4 divisions in '13. Jack as a Falc in '09-10 would've had to 'frequently' play the Bruins 6 times a season.  
> \- My doubly-fictional Aces had 30 points on Dec 2, 2009, which in the real standings (+Schooners) would've placed them as described and, in case you were wondering, Kent as a 2nd overall played for the Isles, which IRL played the Thrashers on Dec 3.  
> \- Speaking of, after I wrote my extra ridiculous Schooners (again, doubly-fictional so suspend your disbelief, m'kay?) I was surprised to learn that the Atlantic Schooners (a CFL team IRL) was once to be brought to Nova Scotia and it turns out the motto of Nova Scotia is "Munit haec et altera vincit" (One defends and the other conquers) which fits my Schooners' "You defend and Kent conquers" strategy. What a cool coincidence, I thought wildly to myself.  
> \- "Je me souviens" (I remember) is the motto of Quebec, another cool coincidence. (Quebec is the only province whose motto is in French.)  
> \- Also, there's "tempus edax rerum" (time, devourer of all things) from Ovid but Jack wouldn't know that?  
> \- "Chit" is a mild Quebec French interjection where it's not a term for poop.  
> \- Although it was possible for someone born in 1990, I don't think Canada would select Jack as a reserve for the Olympics? Also, apparently 22 million people (2/3 of Canada) watched the gold medal game when Canada defeated the US in sudden death OT.
> 
> Some more notes from canon:  
> \- Early tweets had Kent born in 1991 and you can't convince me otherwise.  
> \- "Penitus potes" (Drink deeply) is Samwell student motto, which leaves out "de fonte sapientiae" (from knowledge's well) from the real motto.  
> \- When Shitty mentioned Kent "had the...", Jack knew Shitty meant 2nd hatty of the season, so surely Jack'd been keeping tabs on Kent and would totally have watched Kent win the Cup.  
> \- Jack: I wasn't the one who flipped the board. Holster: I wasn't the one with the CRUEL SHEEP EMPIRE.  
> \- Rumor had it that Jack did a ton of coke and I don't know if anyone ever confronted him but I surmise that drunk/stoned students said insensitive things?  
> \- Jack got invited to CHI, BOS, MTL prospect camps.  
> \- I saw C&N&D and thought CANADA, so.  
> \- Camilla Collins is the captain of the girls' tennis team Jack went to Winter Screw with in junior and senior year. She, Kate, and Samantha are Jack's canon major relationships.  
> \- Kent pressing his face against Jack's neck, clawing at Jack's shirt and telling Jack "I miss you," haunts my nightmares.  
> \- Jack only called Bitty "Bitty" once (when Bitty got injured) before they got together, so in here Bitty is "Bittle".  
> \- Holster played in the USHL and, like many before me, I relish in the idea of him and Kent having met via the USNTDP.  
> \- SMH team came 2nd in the Frozen Four at TD Garden on Apr 11, the same day the '14-15 NHL season ended. I think the Aces would've clinched before then, seeing as Kent was leading the league in points and assists and riding a 31-game point streak around EpiKegster and all.  
> \- Chowder: Hey, Jack! Would you ever think about playing for the Aces?  
> \- Dex asked Jack if Kent was coming to the graduation. Jack: depends on if the aces make the playoffs. Dex: that's kinda like a win win, right? for you?  
> \- Nursey: CHILL. Why would we neglect this obscene pile of leaves?  
> \- Like canon, Johnson knows what's going on.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A destroyer is a small, fast, lightly-armored but heavily-armed warship.

"So that was bullshit," Kenny sums up through a mouthful as the TV switches to a highlight reel. "Why else would they give me the Conn Smythe when you fucking won the Stanley and the Art Ross?"

It's the morning after "the Falcs just fucking won the Cup, let's all get fucking pre-hungover!" and they're eating brunch on the sectional. Or rather Jack's feeding them both for Kenny is ridiculous. There's orange juice mixed with champagne. "You've been great all season. And we got the same points total."

Grandiosely, Kenny gestures to the aptly well-timed showing of the stats, "Nope. You've gone and beat me by a fucking truckload in the playoffs," grinning like he just won something. Which he did. The Conn Smythe and the Art Ross and the Rocket. All of which by breaking a good chunk of NHL records. The pundits now start speculating on who will win the Hart and the Lindsay and whether Jack will win the Selke and the Lady Byng, and oh, right, they always forget about the Calder, ha ha.

"You swept through the first three rounds. That's twelve games vs my seventeen," Jack begins, putting the plate of deconstructed scrambled eggs on the coffee table -- liberated and with ample space since Jack got un-concussed. "You've scored the majority of your team's goals. You never just defensively park your butt in the neutral zone and basically let the mighty legion of elite penalty killers do their thing. Your now consummate overspecialization of a team has never been this good in the past nor the next decade-plus future. This year's Presidents' Trophy win has been one long, slow, hard-hitting annihilation. The whole league just spent the whole season systematically trying to come up with strategies and tactics to dependably end The Reign of Schooners as the media's dubbed it and when my team finally dismantled your team's physically menacing brand of three-ring attack-paralyzing mechanized-nuclear-winter-fortress defense in Game 2 you set off your diabolical disruption deluxe mode and dragged everyone to Game 7. The Partison Schorer, The Dream Destroyer, a nightmare-inducing force on the ice. You've played some of the best hockey the world has ever seen. USA Hockey came out and apologized to the people for not having named you to the Olympic roster, which Canada's been thankful for otherwise Vancouver would've burst into flames and two-thirds of the country would still be on fire. And I get that you're doing this to reverse-psyche me and am aware of my own spectacular multiple-records-breaking season, too, so you can quit with the humble bullshit and we can have lots of sex and maybe a rematch later, okay?"

To that, Kenny grins, satisfied and immensely smug. "I definitely wanna keep playing you for the Cup, and like, I don't mind winning as long as you play your fucking heart out." There's a pause during which a footage fills the screen and they watch themselves kissing under the Stanley Cup -- maybe they're both egotistical fuckers, as Kenny's eloquently observed. "Oh, and you owe me, like, a decade's worth of sex in this apartment at least, I hope you know that."

**Author's Note:**

> I only managed to finish this because I got stuck writing Part 3, which I started (along with that other fic) because I got stuck writing this and so on. You get it. (Also try perusing Part 1 & 2 side-by-side and compare the two POVs if you want?) As always, thank YOU for reading and please consider leaving comments/kudos if you enjoyed. I'd love to know what you think. XD


End file.
